Vignettes
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: An assortment of scenes that didn't want to grow up to be real stories...probably a range of genres.
1. Blisters

_I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story. This disclaimer extends to all chapters in this story._

1\. Blisters

I decided a long time ago that, of all the minor injuries we tend to accumulate on a day-to-day basis, few things are more acutely painful than a ripped-open blister – especially when you have to wash your hands.

At this very moment, I have open blisters on every single finger.

I'm standing in front of the tiny sink in Thunderbird Two's sickbay, knowing that I really ought to wash out the blisters, and really, _really_ wishing that I didn't have to.

I'm still standing there two minutes later when Virgil wanders in to put away his medical bag. He shoots me a questioning glance, but then his eyes travel down to my hands, and he winces deeply.

He doesn't say a word – just stows his bag and walks to the sink. He turns the water on and makes sure it's a good temperature, then steps to the side and looks at me, his warm brown eyes soft with sympathy.

I sigh. Putting it off won't make it hurt any less. I grit my teeth and step forward. My breath catches in my throat as the water washes over my hands, stinging all the exposed nerve endings; the pain turns into a deep, all-consuming throb that travels all the way up my arms.

Virgil puts a couple pumps of soap into my palm and watches as I force my stiff fingers to work up a lather. He still hasn't said anything; he just stands by my side, his hand a warm, comforting weight on my back. He knows what I'm going through – he's been in my place plenty of times.

When I've cleaned away all the dirt and grime, Virgil turns off the water and gently pats my hands dry with a soft, disposable towel. Then he applies antibiotic cream to the injuries and meticulously bandages each of my blistered fingers.

I sigh in relief as the cream soothes the pain, the throbbing gradually subsiding to a very manageable level.

"Thanks," I say.

"No problem," he replies. He gives me a warm smile and a final pat on the shoulder, then heads up to the bridge to fly us home.


	2. Ninja

_This one was going to go into the "You Can Run…" series, but it fizzled. I've brushed it up a bit to add to this series._

2\. Ninja

Scott is like a ninja when he's sick. You can't find him anywhere. Ironically, that's how I usually figure out that he's sick – when he disappears off the face of the planet, I know it's time to prep the infirmary.

My suspicions began about an hour ago, a little while after I had arisen for the day. I had ingested enough coffee to remember that Scott and I had agreed to work out together, but I wasn't sure if we had decided on a time, so I called his wrist comm.

"Hey, Scott?"

There's a long pause before he replies. His voice sounds oddly muffled. "Hey, Virg. What's up?"

"I was just wondering if you remember what time we said we'd work out."

"Uh, I think we said ten, but, actually, I ended up starting a maintenance project on One. Can we postpone the workout for a day or two?" There's a smothered sound in the background that might be a cough.

I frown. Scott doesn't skip exercising. Like, _ever_. "Sure, that's fine. But what's up with your voice?"

"My voice?" he repeats, sounding a little too surprised. "I didn't know there was anything wrong with my voice." He clears his throat and sniffles.

"Yeah, sure," I reply. I decide to test my theory. "Hey, since you're so busy, maybe I can come help out for a little while," I suggest.

Scott's reply is quick and vehement. "Oh, no, that's all right, thanks," he says hastily. "I've got this. You don't need to come down here."

"Well, if you're sure," I say, careful to keep my face straight – if I smile, Scott will hear it in my voice.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks anyway, though."

"No problem. See you at lunch."

Another long pause. "Well, actually, I may not make it up to lunch today. Busy, you know."

"Oh, I _know_ ," I say, finally allowing a smirk on my face.

"Ah, right, well then, I'll talk to you later, Virg," Scott says nervously, ending the call abruptly.

I immediately make a second call. "Hey, Johnny, can you please keep an eye on Scott for me and let me know if he tries to leave Thunderbird One's hangar?"

"Sure," John says. "But what's going on?"

I grin. Not that I don't feel bad for Scott, but it's just so much fun to catch him out. "Oh, nothing much. He's just hiding from me because he's got a cold. I'm going to go prep the infirmary and then collect him and put him to bed."

John laughs, but it sounds a little weak. "Ha," he says. "Poor Scott. He should know better than to try to hide from you." He sneezes. "Oh, uh, excuse me. Just a bit, uh, dusty up here," he says, blowing his nose.

My grin widens. "Right. Well, let me know if Scott moves at all, okay?"

"Of course," John mutters.

I make one more call. "Hey, Al? You'd better get packed and prep Three – John's got a cold. I'll fly up with you just as soon as I put Scott to bed."

Alan sighs. "You're doing that thing again, huh? All right, I'm on it."

I smile in satisfaction as I set out various bottles of medicine in the infirmary. Sometimes I really love my job.


	3. Dead Man's Float

3\. Dead Man's Float

They all knew it was just a prank. And yet they _always_ fell for it – every single time.

There was just something about seeing your brother floating face-down in the pool, arms and legs dangling limp, that really made one's pulse race.

On the plus side, the brothers had all become quite adept at rescuing a "drowning" person, especially since their rotter of a brother usually followed through with the prank all the way until they'd actually dragged him out of the water.

Then he would open his eyes and start critiquing his brother's rescue techniques.

Traditionally, Gordon's victim would, at that point, pull Gordon to his feet, stand him on the edge of the pool, and shove him back into the water.

A casual comment from Scott one day – "Shoved Gordon into the pool, and he went all of five feet before he hit the water" – was the unintentional beginning of a competition that quickly became quite fierce.

Virgil upped the ante a few days later by increasing the distance to six feet.

Then Alan surprised everyone by claiming that he had achieved a ten-foot shove, but it eventually came to light that Gordon had helped by jumping at the same time. That incident led to two rules being decreed – namely, that there must be at least one witness present at the time of the shove, and that Gordon must let himself be shoved without helping out at all.

Surprisingly, John achieved the top record of seven and a half feet a few weeks later. Scott and Virgil were skeptical, but Alan insisted that it was true – apparently John had been fueled by rage, having ruined his favorite shirt by jumping into the pool to rescue Gordon.

Over time, Gordon began to pull the prank less and less, until finally, he stopped doing the Dead Man's Float altogether.

No one was really sorry to see that prank leave Gordon's repertoire.


	4. Call for Help

_This one was intended as an expansion on a snippet from my "Communications" series…it apparently didn't want to become long, though._

4\. Call for Help

It was amazing how everything could go so wrong so quickly, Virgil thought. One minute, he'd been enjoying a challenging rock climb, and the next, he was battered and bruised, tangled in his rope and suspended perilously over a hundred-foot drop.

Ironically, he'd been switching out old climbing anchors in the rock face for newer, safer ones. He had put the old ones there himself in his early climbing days, not long after they had moved to the island. While taking a brush-up class recently, he had learned that the type of anchor he used on the island was obsolete. In the few weeks since the class, whenever he'd had a day off, he had gone climbing and worked on installing new anchors in place of the old ones.

Unfortunately, he'd been in the process of tying his line to one of the older anchors when a rockslide started on the slope above him.

It was a minor slide – just a couple dozen rocks, really – but it hadn't felt minor when it had hit him. He'd pressed himself as close to the rock face as he could, but a few of the rocks had still clipped him, bouncing off his helmet and his shoulders. Then a large one hit his right bicep, tearing his fingers from their hold. The sudden movement threw him off balance, and he fell a few heart-stopping feet before his safety line jerked him to a halt, spinning him around dizzyingly.

When the rocks stopped falling, he slowly opened his eyes and was startled to find himself staring out into open space. When he turned his head to the left, he was looking down toward the treetops a hundred feet below. Somehow, when he had fallen – and he honestly had no idea how it could have happened – his rope had wrapped around him. His right arm was pinned to his side, his back was pressed against the rock, and his legs were dangling below him.

Only his left arm was free. He reached up toward the rope, wondering if he could pull himself back into an upright position, but the movement made his line lurch alarmingly, and he froze.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "This is…interesting. Now what?"

He glanced upward, and for a split second, his heart stopped beating – the anchor that was holding all of his weight was bent at a sharp angle, and little bits of rock were crumbling away from around it.

He gulped – there was only one thing he could do. He was suddenly grateful that it was his left arm that was free as he activated his comm. system.

"Hey, Scott?" he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

There was a moment's pause, then Scott's voice replied, "Yeah, Virg?"

"How fast do you think you can make it to the cliff on the northwest corner of the island?" Virgil winced as the line wrapped around him tightened slightly, digging into his arm.

"Depends on the reason."

Virgil sighed. He felt stupid, but this was no time to let his pride get in the way. "Okay, how's this for a reason: I hit a bit of a rockslide while I was climbing. I'm okay, but I somehow ended up all tangled up in my rope, and I think my anchor may be failing."

"Hey, you know, that's a pretty good reason. I'll be there in five minutes!"

"Okay, thanks!" Virgil sighed again and settled in to wait.

A minute later, he heard the distinctive bass roar of his Bird taking off, and he rolled his eyes. _Great_. If Scott was flying Two, then he would probably have Gordon or Alan – or both – manning the rescue platform.

He was never going to live this down.

The line jerked, dropping him down a foot, and a small shower of pebbles pattered down around him.

On the other hand, he thought quickly, living something down was far better than not living at all.

Thunderbird Two drifted to a stop fifty feet overhead, and Virgil shut his eyes against the dust stirred up by her downdraft. Motors whined, and he cracked his eyes open just as the rescue platform dropped down in front of him.

He looked into Gordon and Alan's smirking faces and grinned. "Hey, this is nice," he said, shouting to be heard over Two's engines. "Saves me the trouble of climbing back down."

Just then, there was a sudden loud crack, and the rope around Virgil went completely slack, dropping him down toward the rescue platform.

It was only a three-foot drop, but Virgil couldn't stifle a yelp as he plunged downward.

Gordon and Alan caught him, stumbling back against the platform railing and supporting him until he could get his legs under him.

He straightened slowly, feeling his brothers' hands holding him steady as the rope fell away from around him. He rolled his shoulders and winced – he was going to have some bruises from the rockslide.

He took a deep breath and gave his younger brothers a shaky grin. "Good timing," he said. He raised his watch to his lips. "Thanks, Scott."

"Any time," Scott said.


	5. Quiet

_Another old contender for "You Can Run…"_

5\. Quiet

I know to watch Gordon carefully when he goes all quiet. If he's cracking jokes, running around a rescue scene like an idiot, or even yelling at the top of his lungs about how much something hurts, he's totally fine. It's when he stops his chatter, limits his movement and loses the sparkle in his eyes that I know he's done something to hurt his back.

Despite the best efforts of multiple teams of doctors, Gordon's spine has been a little out of whack ever since his hydrofoil accident. Frankly, it's a miracle that it isn't any worse than it is.

He actually has fairly constant pain, but it stays at a very manageable level most of the time. Sometimes, when we ask him how he is, he'll respond with a number between one and ten. His daily number is usually anywhere from one to three. If it goes up to four or five, he'll take some muscle relaxants, do some stretches and hang out in the Jacuzzi for a while. Anything above a five, and he's off rescues until the pain subsides.

The trouble is, it's often _during_ a rescue that he goes over five, and in the adrenaline of helping people, he doesn't always let us know right away. He just carries on for as long as he can, and then, when he knows he's close to not being able to take another step, he'll go up to Two's sickbay and knock himself out with a dose of heavy painkillers.

Scott and I try not to let it get that bad – we really do. But we've often got our own crises to deal with, and can't always spare Gordon the attention.

I'm heading home right now after a rescue, and as I fly, I keep one eye on the video feed from the sickbay, where Gordon is sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. When we get home, Scott and I will help him to the Jacuzzi. That will loosen him up enough to get some real, healing sleep. By tomorrow, he'll be able to hobble around, and by the next day he should be practically back to his normal self.

I sigh as I notice that even in a drugged sleep, Gordon's brow is scrunched in pain. I wish I could take it all away and give my younger brother a normal life, but this is just the way things are, and he deals with it to the best of his ability.


	6. Subconscious

6\. Subconscious

 _John's sick._

This thought jolts me from a deep, sound sleep, and I sit up with a gasp. I blink as I look around my dark room; my eyes fall on the clock by my bed, and the fuzzy numbers slowly come into focus – 4:58 AM.

I groan and flop back down, but my eyes stay wide open, the adrenaline making me feel like I've just had a cup of coffee – _Dad's_ coffee.

Knowing I'm not going to get any more sleep until I settle my mind, I drag myself out of bed, shivering as the cool breeze from the air conditioner brushes over my bare torso. I pull on a shirt and stagger out into the hall.

As I walk toward the lounge, I wonder where that rogue thought about John had come from – I interacted plenty with John yesterday, and I don't remember anything about his health catching my attention. Had I subconsciously been collecting clues as I had spoken with him, and my mind had suddenly put all the puzzle pieces together while I slept?

Or – I smile wryly – maybe Gordon is right, and I do have super powers like he keeps on saying.

Scott comes out of his room just then, dressed for his morning run. He freezes when he sees me, then hurries forward, his face concerned. "Virg? What are you doing up?"

I'm glad it's dark in the hall, because I'm pretty sure my face is red when I mutter, "I think John's sick. I was just going to check on him."

"Oh, did he call you?"  
"No."

Scott quirks an eyebrow. "Uh, so what makes you think he's sick, then?"

I frown. "He was too quiet yesterday, and he was really slow to answer whenever we did talk to him. At the time, I thought that maybe there was some lag in the comm. system, but in retrospect, that doesn't really make sense. His voice sounded kind of muffled, too."

Huh. So that bashes the super powers theory…I guess I was subconsciously picking up on clues after all.

Scott doesn't look convinced, though. "You'd better be really sure. He's probably asleep right now, and I doubt he'll appreciate you waking him up just to ask him if he's sick."

"Hmm…good point." I duck into the lounge and sit down at Dad's computer, booting it up and pulling up Five's video feed.

Scott smirks. "You're going to spy on him?"

I shrug. "Why not?"

A couple more clicks, and I'm in on the video cameras on Five's main deck. And…there's John, sitting in his chair.

Now Scott is leaning forward and frowning. "What's he doing up? It's really early for him…" Then he grins and gently swats me on the head. "If all you night owls turn into morning birds, it'll be really weird around here."

I stifle a yawn. "Don't worry. I don't plan on seeing this time of the morning again anytime soon."

We watch as John wearily scrubs his hands over his face. He picks up a mug from the console and takes a sip.

"Ha!" I point at the screen. "See? I knew it! He's drinking tea – you know he only drinks tea when he's sick!"

Scott crosses his arms over his chest. "How do you know it's not coffee? And how would he have gotten sick, anyway? It's not like he's been exposed to germs the past month." He blinks. "Except for that supply run Alan and Gordon made a couple days ago..."

"And that was right after that rescue in Peru…we had to evacuate one whole wing of that hospital, remember? There were all kinds of sick people in there."

"Didn't Alan and Gordon shower before going up to Five?"

"I don't know. They might have skipped it – Dad wanted them to hustle with those supplies."

Scott's mouth tightens, and I suspect he'll have something to mention at our next meeting. Gordon and Alan really ought to know better than to risk spreading germs around. We have rigorous decontamination protocols for a reason.

I click the button that will connect me to Five's comm. system.

John's face fills my screen, and he blinks at me in surprise. "Virgil?" he says hoarsely. "What are you doing up this early?"

I frown at him. "I was planning on asking you the same question. Did you go to bed at all?"

"I tried," he says wearily. A harsh series of coughs has him doubling over. When he catches his breath, he grabs his mug and gulps down more tea, wincing as he swallows. "Every time I lie down, I start coughing."

One glance at Scott is enough to tell me that he's thinking the same thing I'm thinking. "Okay, John," I say. "We're going to wake Alan up and get him up there."

"What?" John exclaims, coughing again. "No, don't do that! You know how he is when he has to come up early. I'm just up here for another few days…I can hang in there for that long."

"Absolutely not," Scott says. "Alan is your backup, and it's his job to cover for you when you're sick, whether he likes it or not. Besides, he's probably responsible for bringing the germs up there in the first place."

"Well…that did cross my mind," John says. He sighs. "Okay, fine. I'll see you in a couple hours, then." He pauses before cutting the connection. "And, guys? Thanks. I'm really looking forward to being home."

The screen goes dark, and Scott shoots me a sideways glance. "So…who gets to wake Alan up?"

I stand and head toward the kitchen. The first rush of adrenaline has worn off already, and I'm intent on getting some coffee into my system. "You do, obviously," I call over my shoulder. "You're already in your running clothes, so you'll be able to make a quick escape when he erupts!"

"Ha, ha," Scott says. "Very funny. Fine, I'll wake him up, but you owe me big time, Virg!"

"I'm okay with that," I mutter. I'll take owing Scott any day over waking Alan up.

As I walk down the hallway, Gordon emerges from his bedroom, dressed for swimming. He gapes at me. "Virg? What are _you_ doing up?"

I sigh. Here we go again.


	7. Heroes

People call us heroes. At first, I was flattered. I even went so far as to think, _Yeah, they're totally right._ We risk our lives out there, after all. Isn't that heroic?

The long flights home after rescues are often a good time to think. Usually we're mentally dissecting the rescue – going back through it play-by-play to see if there was something we could have done better.

Other times, though, I get a little philosophical. Don't tell my brothers I said that – they'd laugh, and say, "Gordon? _Philosophical?_ Yeah, right!"

Today, Virgil and I are flying back after a long, difficult rescue. At the end of it, we'd had to press through a throng of bystanders, and had been hailed on all sides as heroes. It's a little hard not to let that go to your head, to repeat after Scott, "Just doing our job," when inside, you're basking in the glory. _Yeah, of course we're heroes – we just totally saved the day…hey, how about a round of applause, too?_

As Virg and I ride the lift up into Thunderbird Two, though, one figure on the outskirts of the crowd catches my eye, and my mood goes from jubilant to utterly crushed in the space of one heartbeat.

It's a woman, head down, face in her hands, shoulders shaking with broken sobs. A police officer stands by her side, his eyes communicating the sorrow he's barely keeping off his face. I know what he has just told the woman. I had heard the news at the beginning of the rescue – that a police officer had died escorting people to safety. At the time, I'd been so busy that I had barely been able to spare the news a quick pang of sadness. Now it hits me like a ton of bricks, and as Virgil and I trudge wearily to our seats, I think, _That man was the real hero at this rescue._ Sure, we risk our lives, but he actually gave his life today.

That gets me thinking…if being a hero means giving up one's life for others, then there are all kinds of unsung heroes out there:

The single mother who gets up early and goes to bed late, day in and day out, working long hours to support her kids, setting aside her own desires and dreams.

The soldiers on the battlefield, who put themselves in harm's way to protect their country.

The elderly husband who cares for his handicapped wife 24/7 rather than put her in a nursing home.

The teacher who spends her days teaching and molding children, and her evenings correcting their homework and planning ahead.

The pastor who sets aside his supper to answer a phone call from a member in need of counseling – even though he missed lunch that day.

The doctor who dedicates a decade or more to learning how to care for people's medical needs.

The police officers and firefighters who put their lives on the line on a daily basis.

I could go on…but I hear the ping that announces our final descent toward Tracy Island. I glance over at Virgil. He gave up so much to be a part of International Rescue – actually, so did all of my family. I guess I did, too…I've been told that I could've made it high up in WASP, had I stayed in the military.

So…I guess it's fair to call us heroes. We do risk our lives on a regular basis, after all. But I'm going to be careful not to let it go to my head, since there are so many people out there who deserve the title way more than I do.


	8. Jacuzzi

8\. Jacuzzi Part I

Jeff had put off his sons' requests for a Jacuzzi for a long time, seeing it as a pointless waste of money – they had swimming pools, bathtubs and the ocean, after all. Why would they need a hot tub too?

But then one time he and Gordon had gone to the mainland together and had stayed at a hotel. Gordon was stiff and sore from a rescue, but had still gone down to the hotel pool to get some laps in. When he returned, he had looked refreshed and relaxed.

"The swimming loosened you up that much?" Jeff had asked.

"Yeah, some," Gordon had said. "But I think it was the hot tub that really did it. There's nothing like a Jacuzzi for sore muscles!"

When Jeff and Gordon had returned to the island the next day, there was a very large package in the back of the jet.

"A Jacuzzi?" Scott had asked, peeking in the back when he had come down to meet them. "I thought you said we didn't need one!"

"It's for therapeutic purposes only," Jeff had replied gruffly.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Gordon, of course, used the hot tub more than anyone else – it really seemed to help when his back pain was flaring up. His brothers took a little longer to accept it as an actual form of treatment, and when they did, it was at Gordon's urging.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Virgil could feel Gordon's eyes on him as they flew back to the island. The rescue had been a twelve-hour slog in deep mud, and Virgil had somehow ended up with the worst of the grunt work. Every bone, joint and muscle ached with an unspeakable intensity, and even though he was beyond exhausted, Virgil wondered if he would be able to sleep through the pain.

He blinked as he suddenly realized that he was performing the post-flight checks on Two…but when had he landed? He didn't remember landing! Panicking slightly, he turned toward Gordon and received another jolt when his brother was nowhere to be seen.

He heard movement behind him, and turned to see Gordon entering the cockpit, a strange combination of amusement and sympathy on his face as he took in Virgil's confusion.

"C'mon, Virg, I've got it all set up for you." Gordon pulled Virgil to his feet.

Virgil groaned as his stiff body protested the movement. "You've got _what_ set up?" he demanded, reaching down to hastily flip a couple final switches. He stumbled, yawning, in Gordon's footsteps as they exited the big green Bird. He wasn't paying any attention to where they were walking, so he was surprised when they didn't end up in the lounge, but in a small room near the infirmary – the hot tub room. He blinked and smothered another yawn. "Gords, what…?"

Gordon pointed to the hot tub, which was full and bubbling merrily away. "Trust me, you need it," Gordon said. "It'll help you relax enough to get to sleep."

Virgil was too weary to protest as Gordon bullied him out of his uniform and into the hot tub. Although he flinched at first at the heat of the water, it was only moments before he felt the soothing warmth easing away his aches and pains. He melted down into the seat, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

When he opened them, he was surprised to be greeted with Scott's warm smile – and again, no sign of Gordon. Huh…had he actually fallen asleep in the hot tub?

Scott had already showered and changed into comfortable clothes after the rescue – one advantage of having the faster ship. He grinned. "Time to get out – you're going to be all pruny." He held up a towel and some clothes. "Gordon said you might need these."

Virgil looked at the clothes. "Pajamas?"

Scott shrugged. "Well, considering that he said he's pretty sure you were asleep when you landed Two, I figured you might want to head straight to bed." His tone was mildly remonstrating.

Virgil climbed slowly from the hot tub and grabbed the towel. He smiled as he saw two Tylenol and a glass of water sitting on a shelf nearby – Gordon was nothing if not thorough. "Well, I always did say I could fly her in my sleep. I guess this proves it."

Scott turned off the hot tub and set it to drain. "So did the Jacuzzi help?" he asked, apparently choosing to ignore the comment about flying while asleep.

"Yeah, definitely. You should try it sometime."

Scott shrugged. "We'll see."


	9. Cracked

9\. Cracked

 _I'm in charge of the personal care room in the General Store I work at…so, yeah, had to stick this in here!_

I wrote a list of pros and cons shortly after Dad asked me if I wanted to be a part of International Rescue. It was late at night, and I couldn't sleep with all the ideas whirling around in my mind, so I got up, found a sheet of paper, and wrote down some of my thoughts.

The pros included things like the fact that I'd be saving lives, how nice it would be to work with my family, and the realization that I would be piloting the FASTEST AIRCRAFT IN THE WORLD. I remember writing that line – just like that, all in caps. There may even have been a few exclamation points tossed in, if I recall correctly.

My cons list, written on the opposite side of the page, included most of the things you'd expect. Joining IR would mean giving up my career in the Air Force, living in secrecy, and risking my life and my brothers' lives on a daily basis. And it would mean working with my family. Yes, I realize that I put working with my family under both categories.

Of all the negative things that I thought of, though, there was one that never crossed my mind: cracked fingertips. If I could go back in time, that would definitely make it onto the list of cons.

Some of you are laughing incredulously right now.

Others of you are wincing – _you_ know what I'm talking about – those little vertical cracks that form under your nails, sometimes extending into the pad of your finger. They never seem to heal properly, either. Just when you think they've closed up, you bump your finger, and they split open again.

It's a particularly annoying kind of pain, because it's there all the time, but it's not quite bad enough to complain about, so you have to learn to just deal with it.

I never used to have this problem. It started after a few damp, cold rescues pretty early on in my time in IR, and I've never been able to get it under control. None of my brothers seem to have the same problem, either – John lives in such a controlled environment that his skin is always fine. Virgil's not shy about slathering on lotion. You'd think the chlorine in the pool would leave Gordon raw and chapped, but somehow, his skin is always smooth and supple. And Alan doesn't seem to have any problems, even though he's always scrubbing his hands to try to get the oil and grease off after working on his cars.

One day, though, I notice Alan coming to the dinner table with red, freshly scrubbed hands, and he seems to be rubbing something into his fingertips.

I make a face. "You put on lotion too?"

He looks down at his hands. "What, this stuff? Kind of, I guess. It's unscented, though – just beeswax and olive oil." He fishes a little metal tin from his pocket. "Tintin gets it for me on the mainland. My fingertips used to crack like crazy with all this scrubbing, but ever since I started using this stuff, it hasn't been a problem."

"Really?" I ask, my curiosity piqued. "They healed up, just like that?"

"Well, it took a few days of frequent use, but yeah. Then as long as you stay on top of it, it keeps the cracks from coming back. Wanna try it? Here, take this tin – I've got more in my room."

I take the tin with mixed feelings. "Thanks, Al."

But within a few days, I'm hooked. My fingers are back to normal for the first time in years.

The next time Tintin goes to the mainland, I make sure to send money with her for several more tins of the balm.

In this job, you learn to appreciate the little things.


	10. Physicality

_Turned out my light last night…and a story idea popped into my head. So I turned my light back on, grabbed the Post-It notes from my bedside table, and scribbled this out. It took 9 Post-Its, lol._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

10\. Physicality

Whenever he comes down to Tracy Island for a few days' visit, John is always startled by the sheer _physicality_ of his brothers.

Accustomed to living as a solitary figure amid the vast stretches of outer space, he finds it incredibly jarring to feel a hand on his shoulder and turn around to find Scott _right there_ behind him.

The way Virgil likes to drape an arm over John's shoulders as they walk side by side down the hall gives John the heebie-jeebies.

And _Gordon_ – just the thought of his second-youngest brother makes John shudder. The hugs – sometimes twenty or more a day – the slaps on the back, the attempts to grab him and whirl him into a waltz at random intervals…Gordon is definitely a little too fond of suddenly and loudly invading John's sense of order, space, and _dignity._

And then there's Alan. With the youngest brother, it's not so much that he's always touching John; it's more the concern that, in his constant whirl of motion, he's liable to crash into John at any moment. Not that it's actually happened yet – the kid is remarkably adept at last-second dodges – but a fast-moving Alan skidding past him tends to leave John standing stock still and blinking, wondering how he didn't just get bowled over.

It's not that John dislikes physical contact. After a couple days on Earth, when he feels Scott's hand on his shoulder, he doesn't jump, and he's ready with a smile as he turns around. He'll lean into Virgil's one-armed hugs; sometimes he'll even reciprocate, wrapping his own long arm around Virgil's broad shoulders. He'll anticipate Gordon's attack hugs, surprising him with a quick tickle – which _still_ makes Gordon giggle like when he was five; good grief! – or by ruffling his hair. He'll hold out a hand for a high-five as Alan dashes past, and once in a while, he'll snatch his youngest brother out of orbit with a gentle hand around his wrist and channel that boundless energy into an enthusiastic discussion on one of their many shared interests.

He likes to spar with Scott and to stand by Virgil on their balcony late at night, shoulders barely touching. Even though he'd never admit it out loud, he actually does like Gordon's hugs, although he could do with a few less of them. And when Alan occasionally pauses long enough to wrap those gangly arms around John, he secretly melts inside.

So he does _like_ physical touch…it's just so very _different_ from what he's used to, and it takes him time to adjust to it each time he comes down.

The adjustment goes the other way too, though – when he goes back up to Five, for the first day or two he occasionally thinks he feels the warm pressure of Scott's hand on his shoulder, but when he turns around, no one is there. As he makes his way along the rounded hallways, he misses the weight of Virgil's arm around him. Every doorway he goes through, he's half-expecting a tackle hug from Gordon. And he's always bracing himself for the next time Alan goes whizzing past.

But eventually all these sensations and expectations fade away, and his brothers are reduced once again into distant, blue, pixelated holograms that can't touch or feel.

And for a while, John is alone again. He tells himself he likes it that way, but at least once a month, he finds his feet carrying him of their own accord into the space elevator, and he drops back down into that hot, jostling, joyous place that he calls home.

Hey, sometimes a guy just needs a hug.

Even John.


	11. Stitches

11\. Stitches

Gordon is lying on his stomach on the exam table in the infirmary, his head pillowed on his arms. He hasn't moved or spoken in ten minutes.

This bothers me, because I know it means he's in pain, despite the liberal doses of local anesthetic I've used. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do at this point but keep working.

I tie off another stitch and pause to assess my progress. I sigh. I'm up to fifteen stitches, and I've got a ways to go.

"You hanging in there, Gords?" I ask. I flex my fingers before reaching for the materials for the next stitch.

Gordon opens one eye. "Yeah, I'm okay," he says. "Do you think I'll beat my record?"

I study the long, ragged gash across his back with a critical eye. "Hmm, depends if we're counting the hydrofoil crash. If we're just taking into consideration the non-hydrofoil injuries, then yes, this will definitely be the most stitches you've ever had at one time."

"Well, that's something, anyway," Gordon sighs.

I roll my eyes. "You know, I'd be perfectly happy if you never try to beat this record." I pull the next stitch tight and tie it off. That's sixteen.

"Hey, it's not my fault there was a piece of sheet metal in that debris."

Seventeen. "You could have tried moving Alan instead of shielding him."

"I did try. His foot was caught between a couple boards."

"Oh, so that's why he's limping." Eighteen stitches.

"He's hurt?"

His voice is deeply concerned. Touching, but ironic, coming from the one laying on a steel table with…wait for it – yes, _nineteen_ stitches in a prickly line across his back and plenty more still to come. "He's fine. Just a minor sprain – his foot must have twisted when you landed on top of him." Twenty. "You win the prize for the biggest boo-boo today."

"Hmm," he says. "Can the prize be a cake? Maybe that thing you make with the jello in it and whipped cream on top?"

"What, a poke cake? Sure, that sounds good. What kind of jello do you want?" Twenty-one. I pause to flex my fingers again.

"How about orange?"

Twenty-two. "Okay, I'll see what we have in the pantry, but I should be able to pull that off."

"Thanks," he says.

We're quiet for a little while. I'm up to thirty-two stitches before Gordon speaks again.

"I don't remember how many stitches I got from the hydrofoil accident."

I grimace. "And I'd prefer to forget." Thirty-three.

"I think most of them had already been removed by the time I woke up." He itches absently at the medical tape on the back of his hand holding in his I.V. line – he'd lost enough blood that I had given him a transfusion. "It's weird, sometimes, when I think about how long I was in the hospital, and how I don't even remember half of it. It's like a chunk of my life is missing."

I'm up to thirty-five stitches. I take another quick break to rest my fingers. "Yeah, it was kind of timeless for the rest of us too. We didn't measure time in hours or days; it was more like _events_ – like, when you started breathing on your own again and they were able to take out the tube. Or when you started being able to squeeze Dad's finger a tiny bit, even before you had opened your eyes. Or when they were able to take out most of the stitches. There was one day that I looked at the calendar, and I was really surprised to see that it had been four weeks since your accident, and that I had spent most of that time in your hospital room."

He sighs, and I wince sympathetically as the expansion of his chest tugs lightly at his stitches. Breathing is going to be painful for a while.

"I hate that you guys gave up so much time just watching me vegetate," Gordon mutters.

Thirty-six. "I get that, Gords, I really do – I'm sure I'd feel the same way if I had been in your place. But I promise you that none of us were thinking that way. We didn't see it as a waste of time." Thirty-seven. I hope I have enough thread. I'll have to replenish my supplies after this, in any case. "We just _had_ to be there; there wasn't any other option." I smirk. "Kind of like you just _had_ to shield Alan today." Thirty-eight.

" _That_ I blame on Scott. You remember how he used to lecture you, me and Johnny on watching out for younger siblings?" He laughs. "He made it all sound so serious and important that I remember thinking it wasn't fair that I only got one younger brother to keep an eye on."

Thirty-nine. "I think that 'keeping an eye on Alan' is kind of a generous description of your interactions with him, Gordon. You two were more like partners in crime than anything else. Still are, as a matter of fact." Forty stitches – and the end is in sight! "All right, Gords, I'm almost done here. You holding up okay?"

"I'm as good as gold," he says.

I can see that he's smirking.

"Get it?" he asks. "Cause I have a gold medal?"

Forty-one. "Uh, yeah, that's great, Gordon. Ha, ha. Very funny." Forty-two.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Aaand…forty-five.

"Okay, that's it! Forty-five. New record, excluding the hydrofoil crash." I gently slather on a layer of antibiotic ointment and tape a huge gauze patch over the injury. "All right. Here, let me help you off the table."

It takes a little maneuvering, but eventually I've got Gordon set up on the more comfortable infirmary bed, his eyes slowly drifting shut as the exhaustion of the day catches up to him.

I sit by him, and my mind flashes back to the many, many hours that I spent in a similar pose after the hydrofoil accident.

"You're never a waste of time, Gordon," I tell him softly.

He curls his fingers around mine and drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.


	12. Helper

12\. Helper

The escalator was out of service.

Gordon sighed and began trudging slowly down the stairs, careful to keep his steps even and his muscles relaxed.

He was on his way back to his hotel after a full day on the mainland. He had spent the day shopping, picking up an assortment of necessities as well as some gifts – Alan and Scott both had birthdays coming up soon. Shopping wasn't exactly his favorite activity, but he'd been having fun until about an hour earlier, when his back had suddenly twinged.

Very familiar with his body's warning signs, he had hurried to find a delivery service to take his packages to his jet, and had begun the journey back to his hotel.

He was almost there. Once he made it onto the subway, he'd have a five minute ride, and then he'd be let off practically on the doorstep of his hotel. He had pain meds and a Jacuzzi in his room; if he could just hold it together for a few more minutes, he'd be fine.

Unfortunately, his back hadn't picked the best time to act up. It was rush hour, and hordes of people were rushing past all around him, intent on catching their trains and getting home after a long workday.

Just as Gordon was almost to the bottom of the stairs, someone shoved past him on the left, bumping him roughly on the shoulder. Caught off guard, Gordon missed the last step. As he instinctively took a longer step to compensate, pain shot through his back, dropping him to the hard tile floor on his hands and knees with a stifled cry of pain.

For a minute, the pain was the only thing he could think about – that, and remembering to breathe.

But the fog slowly began to lift, and as he cautiously glanced around, he found himself grateful that he had somehow managed to fall slightly to one side of the bottom of the steps, since the crowd didn't seem to show any particular inclination to stop moving just because he was in their way. Of all the ways he could imagine dying, he thought wryly, getting trampled to death by a crowd in a subway station had to be near the bottom of the list.

He huddled there for a few minutes, regulating his breathing and gathering his thoughts.

 _Okay,_ he thought. _Now what?_

His shoulders slumped slightly as he thought through various options and only came up with one solution. He'd have to call an ambulance. It was ridiculous, because that would mean a trip to the hospital, with a long wait and then a pointless exam before they would give him pain meds. He would be _fine_ if he could just make it back to his hotel room, but he didn't see how that was possible. The only other option was to call International Rescue, but he suspected that that wouldn't go over very well.

Resigned to the necessity of calling for medical help, he was just starting to plan out the motion of reaching for his phone when a bright, clear voice cut through the fog of pain clouding his mind.

"Hey, what's wrong, honey? Are you sick?"

A smiling face appeared in front of him – a woman, her face well worn with lines, but brightened by warm, smiling eyes. She rested a hand on his shoulder as she crouched down to speak to him.

He ducked his head, embarrassed. "My back," he said softly. Then he made himself look up and try to smile. "It decides to quit working every once in a while."

She laughed – not making fun of him, but apparently recognizing his feeble attempt to have a sense of humor about his situation. "Yeah, I've got a knee like that – I never know when it's just going to stop doing what it's supposed to do! So, what can I do to help?"

That gave Gordon pause. What he really _wanted_ was to get back to his hotel room with a minimum of fuss, but he hated to impose on a stranger. It would take a lot of strength to support him in his current state.

But as he looked up at the woman, trying to judge the sincerity of her offer of help, he found himself smiling as he recognized something in her eyes – she was a kindred spirit, he realized. She was one of those rare people who just loved to help others.

"Can you help me back to my hotel room?" he asked. "It's the Grand, so it's not far, and if I can just get there and crash, I'll be fine in the morning."

Her eyebrows went up a little at the name of the hotel, but then her smile broadened and her eyes sparkled. "I can do that," she said. "What's the best way to get you on your feet?"

Gordon grimaced. "Maybe it's not the _best_ way, but I tend to prefer one quick movement. I'll try to do most of the work myself; if you can just support me a little when I'm standing up, that would be great."

"Okay," she said, her face intent. She stood, but stayed bent over, one hand on Gordon's arm, ready to help him.

Gordon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, knowing he'd chicken out if he thought about it too much, he said, "All right. One, two, three!" And with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up into a standing position.

His legs wobbled and nearly sent him crumpling straight back to the ground, but the woman had a surprisingly strong grip on him, and she kept him from falling again. After a minute, the initial white-hot blaze of pain subsided, and Gordon was able to take a little more of his own weight.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks. Now, the next step is to make it from here to the train."

She seemed to read his mind, slipping his arm over her shoulders and putting her left arm around his waist. "Lead on," she said cheerfully. "You set the pace, dear."

It was a very, very _slow_ pace, but they made it in a few minutes - just in time for the train. They stepped aboard, the woman trying to guide Gordon so that he would be jostled as little as possible.

Once they were aboard, she asked, "Do you want to sit or stand?"

He grimaced. "I'm not sure I'd be able to get up again if I sat." He glanced around. "Here, I'll hang onto this pole."

She helped him to the pole and made sure he could stand on his own before she let go of him.

The subway began moving, and Gordon shuddered, his vision graying out slightly at the grinding pain in his lower back. He felt a hand on his arm, and he opened his eyes to see the woman watching him in concern. "I'm okay," he muttered.

Her eyes lit up with amusement. "Sure you are," she said. Then she shrugged. "But I say the same thing when my knee goes kaput, so I understand." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Marge, by the way."

Gordon cautiously adjusted his grip on the pole so he could shake her hand. "Gordon. And I can't even begin to thank you for doing this," he said. "I know it's got to be totally out of your way…"

She shook her head. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly. "People are always more important than schedules."

Gordon wondered if Marge was naturally such a giving person, or if she had grown into the role, like he had.

In a few more minutes, they came to Gordon's stop. Marge helped Gordon out of the train, up the escalator, and into the hotel, patiently matching his slow, wobbling pace and pausing to let him rest every once in a while.

"What room?" she asked.

"432," Gordon said from between gritted teeth. His steps were coming slower and slower now, and he knew he wouldn't be able to stay upright much longer.

Marge got him into the elevator and down the hall. When they stopped in front of his door, he started to pull away from her, words of thanks on the tip of his tongue – but she held out her hand.

"Key," she said firmly.

Meekly, he handed it to her, and watched her open the door. Apparently she was going to help him get to bed too, he thought wryly. He was aware that his father and Scott would be having about twenty different fits if they knew he was letting a complete stranger into his hotel room, but he preferred to live as an optimist and assume that Marge was entirely aboveboard.

To his surprise, though, there were lights on in the room. He held up a hand to stop Marge from leading him through the doorway. "Hang on," he said. "I didn't leave lights on."

"Gordon?" a voice said from inside the room. "Is that you?"

Gordon brightened. "Virg? What are you doing here?"

Virgil was still out of sight around the corner, but his voice grew louder as he moved toward the door. "Well, I needed a certain part for Two, and I figured that rather than just calling you to pick it up, I'd come get it myself and then hang out with you. I hope you don't mind me crashing in your hotel room." He stepped out into the hallway then, and blinked as he spotted Marge. "Oh, uh, hi." His eyes swept over the unusual pair, taking in Gordon's pale face and slumped posture, and his voice quickly sharpened in concern. " _Gordon_?"

"Relax," Gordon said, giving Virgil a tired grin. "My back went out, and this lovely lady helped me all the way up here from the Second Street Station. Virgil, meet Marge. Marge, my older brother Virgil."

Polite to a fault, even when he was taken off guard, Virgil stepped forward to shake Marge's hand. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "That was really above and beyond the call of duty, Ma'am."

"Oh, it was nothing," she said cheerily, returning the handshake with energy and then cautiously easing Gordon's weight over to Virgil. She took a couple steps back and put her hands on her hips. "I'm sure someone else would have helped you if I hadn't come along just then."

"But they didn't," Gordon said bluntly. "I was probably there for at least five minutes before you stopped." He looked her in the eye. "What you did for me was unusual in today's world, and it was really refreshing to see someone who would take the time and effort to help a stranger."

She was backing away, her face still lit with a warm smile. "Well, Gordon," she said quietly. "Maybe someday you'll have a chance to help someone too, and then you'll understand that it's really not a burden – it's a joy. I hope you recover quickly, Gordon. And nice to meet you too, Virgil." With a final wave, she disappeared around the corner of the hallway.

Gordon felt Virgil's arm tighten around him, and he turned to follow him into the room.

Virgil knew the routine; he brought Gordon straight into the bathroom. "You were on the floor for five minutes, and no one else stopped to help?" He left Gordon hanging onto the door frame and started filling the tub with water, his quick, stiff movements revealing his anger with the subway crowds.

"Barely even looked at me," Gordon sighed. Then he smiled. "But then Marge showed up, and it was like the sun started shining again."

Virgil snorted. "Don't let Alan hear you say that out of context, or he'll start making up ballads for you and Marge on his guitar." He added a generous dollop of bubble bath to the water, then turned to help Gordon out of his clothes.

"It's weird being on the receiving end of help from a stranger," Gordon said a minute later, settling into the hot water with a long, tired sigh. He could feel the tight muscles in his back begin to ease almost immediately.

Virgil handed Gordon an assortment of pills and an open water bottle. "I liked the bit where she said, 'Maybe someday you can help someone too,'" he said, a hint of a smirk playing around his lips.

Gordon swallowed the pills and shrugged. "Hey, she's right, of course." He settled back against the tub's seat and closed his eyes.

Virgil left the room just long enough to grab a sketch pad, a pencil, and a chair. He liked to keep an eye on Gordon after he took his pain pills, especially when he was in the hot tub.

He flipped to a blank page in the sketch pad and sat back, wondering what he should draw. Suddenly he smirked and set pencil to paper with enthusiasm.

When Gordon woke up the next morning, groggy and achy, but mostly better, he rolled over and saw a paper on his nightstand. He picked it up and blinked at it, then a grin slowly spread across his face.

A white horse filled much of the page; a knight on the horse's back was reaching down to help a fallen man up from the ground. The only unusual thing? The knight was a woman, and she looked an awful lot like Marge, complete with a radiant smile.

Gordon glanced over at Virgil's sleeping form in the next bed and shook his head, wondering how late his brother had stayed up the night before finishing the drawing.

Then he got up and limped over to his overnight bag, carefully tucking the picture in so it wouldn't get damaged.

He'd have to remember to pick up a frame later that day – that picture was definitely going on his wall.

If his other brothers asked him about it, he'd just say that it was a reminder of how much it can mean when one person takes the time to help another.


	13. Jacuzzi II

13\. Jacuzzi Part II

Scott's need for the soothing waters of the Jacuzzi came sooner than he expected. A few days after Virgil had landed Two in his sleep, Scott lost his footing during a rescue and for an alarming few moments, went tumbling head over heels down a rocky mountainside. He managed to stop himself moments before he would have slid over the edge of a cliff.

He refused treatment at the scene, but by the time they got home after the rescue, he was so stiff and sore that he could hardly move, and everyone could tell that he was absolutely miserable despite his attempts to convince them that he was fine.

Virgil insisted on bringing him to the infirmary and running scans. At the end, he shook his head. "Well, no broken bones, but you've got a few pulled muscles and there's hardly a square inch of you that isn't black and blue. Unfortunately, there's not a lot I can do for that, other than to give you some painkillers."

Scott nodded, then winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "That's fine," he said wearily. His knees nearly buckled under him when he stood, though; he grabbed the side of the table to support himself, grimacing as strained muscles twinged.

Virgil sighed, wishing there was something he could do to take the pain away – and then he nearly gasped as an idea suddenly popped into his head. "Stay right there," he told Scott. "I'll be right back." He hurried from the room.

Predictably, Scott was halfway to the door when Virgil returned, pointedly ignoring the crutches Virgil had left out for him.

Virgil handed Scott the crutches. "Here, use these and follow me," he instructed.

Scott rolled his eyes and trailed after Virgil, his slow pace and stiff movements a far cry from his normal confident stride. He was concentrating on walking and didn't look up until they were about to enter another room. He glanced at the door and groaned. "Really, Virg?"

Virgil grinned sympathetically and kept tugging Scott forward. "Hey, it helped me when I was sore. No reason you can't give it a try."

It was a bit pathetic how little fight Scott was able to put up; in less than a minute, he was sitting in the Jacuzzi, slowly relaxing as the hot water swirled around him. "Well, it's not bad, I guess," he reluctantly admitted.

At the end of half an hour, Scott felt so much better that Virgil had a harder time convincing him to get out of the Jacuzzi than he had getting him in.

"Okay, I admit it," Scott said as he and Virgil headed back up to the main part of the house. His movements had loosened enough that he was able to swing along at a decent pace on his crutches. "Gordon's totally right – the hot tub is great as a treatment for aches and pains."

"Now if we can just convince Dad that it'd be even more therapeutic to have another one by the pool, it'd be perfect," Virgil said.

"Hey, we've got our own spending money," Scott replied. "Let's make it happen!"

And so, a couple weeks later, the Tracy household had upgraded to two hot tubs.

Jeff didn't say a word about the poolside addition, but when the brothers went out to play pool volleyball one evening and found Jeff enjoying the hot, bubbling water, they all exchanged a smirk – the battle had been won.


	14. Protective

_I think this was a suggestion from someone, but I forget who…anyway, here is adorable TAG Alan getting a chance to be protective!_

 _Also, sorry that I'm behind on replying to reviews. The site seems to be glitching right now, and isn't showing reviews from the past few days._

14\. Protective

It all happened so fast that Gordon hardly realized that the big man had moved until suddenly he was pinned against a wall, his feet a good six inches off the floor. He tried to suck in a breath, but the huge hands wrapped around his throat were steadfastly denying him even the tiniest gasp of air.

 _Oh man,_ he thought dazedly, his head beginning to spin. _Scott's gonna_ kill _me if I get myself killed, especially in front of Alan._

He frowned. There was something wrong with that sentence.

But then he thought of something else – where _was_ Alan? Gordon was supposed to be watching out for the kid…was he in danger too?

Gordon struggled, trying desperately to free himself, but his hands were oddly weak, and his limbs felt heavy and slow. Blackness was beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision.

 _Alan_ , he thought fuzzily. _Need to find Alan…_

And then, as if conjured by Gordon thinking about him, Alan suddenly appeared out of nowhere near the big man's left elbow, his young face blazing with anger.

"Hey!" Alan screeched. "Let go of him! We're International Rescue – we're here to help!"

The man ignored him, wrapping his fingers more tightly around Gordon's windpipe.

Alan disappeared from sight for a second, and then there was a sudden loud _clunk_ , and the man staggered backward, dropping Gordon and clutching at his head.

Gordon crumpled bonelessly to the pavement and made the weirdest sound that he had ever heard as his lungs frantically sucked in a huge breath of sweet, sweet air. He lay still, unable to move, just letting his lungs do their thing and watching the color seep back into the world around him.

After a few moments, he was able to focus his blurry eyes a little bit better, and a rush of adrenaline got him up onto one elbow as he realized what he was seeing – the big man was stalking toward Alan.

Alan stood his ground, his face defiant.

"Alan," Gordon gasped. He tried to sit up, but couldn't quite complete the motion and flopped back down onto his side.

He'd never felt so helpless as he watched the man lunge toward the boy who was half his size.

But an instant later, Gordon found himself gasping in surprise.

It made sense, he thought slowly, his brain trying to explain what he was seeing. Bored Alan, too young for missions, plus a bored Kayo, often stuck at home with Alan = ninja little brother. Kayo had evidently used some of that time to turn Alan into a mini whirlwind.

He doubted that the big man even knew what hit him – he was down in seconds, out cold at the hands of a scrawny teenager who had been complaining about his homework an hour earlier.

And then suddenly Alan was crouching down in front of him. Hey, how had he done that? Could the kid teleport now?

Alan was trembling and looked like he was trying not to cry. Gordon wondered why his brother looked more scared now than when he'd faced down Goliath.

Alan activated the comm. symbol on his sash. "We need medical help for Gordon _now_ ," he said shakily.

Oh. Maybe that was why Alan's face was white. Because Gordon had just almost died.

Come to think of it, Alan's face was fuzzier than it had been a minute earlier – and not in a way like the kid needed his first shave.

But why was that? Shouldn't things be getting clearer now that he was able to breathe?

Alan was talking again; most of the words flowed past Gordon, but he caught something about a head injury.

He blinked. Who had a head injury? Oh, wait, Alan was talking about him.

Huh.

Well, that actually made sense. Now that he thought about it, he did remember kind of a solid thunk at the back of his head when the big guy had first picked him up and flung him against the brick wall. At the time, he'd been more focused on the clawlike fingers squeezing the life out of him, though.

Suddenly Virgil was bending down over him, and he caught a glimpse of Scott behind Virgil, wrapping his arms around Alan.

"Whoa," he muttered. "You guys can teleport too?"

A smile quirked at the corners of Virgil's mouth, a contrast to the worry in his eyes and the line between his brows. "You bet, kiddo," he said. "Hey, do me a favor and follow my finger with your eyes, okay?"

Gordon obeyed. "Did you guys know that Alan's a superhero?"

Virgil shone a light in Gordon's eyes. "Um, I hadn't realized. Why do you say that?"

"He knocked that big guy down in about five seconds!"

Virgil glanced over his shoulder at the prone figure of the man a little ways away – regular paramedics were attending to him, with police officers keeping a watchful eye. Virgil smiled indulgently. "Sure he did," he said, and bent over his medical bag.

Outraged, Gordon tried to push himself up onto his elbows. "He really did!" he exclaimed. "He looks all cute and innocent, but I'm telling you, the kid's like…like, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, or something! Well, except for the mutant part. And the turtle part. But you know what I mean."

Virgil's stare told him that he did _not_ know what Gordon meant at all.

Gordon huffed. "Ask _him_ ," he said, pointing to Alan.

Virgil turned toward Alan, and his eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline when Alan didn't refute Gordon's claim, but instead blushed and cast his gaze toward the ground.

Scott, his arm still around Alan's shoulders, exchanged a startled glance with Virgil, and then looked down at the top of his youngest brother's head. "Alan?" he prompted.

Alan's face grew even more red, and he self-consciously dug the tip of his toe around in the dirt. "Kayo was teaching me," he said. "Back before you guys started letting me come on rescues, and before she had Thunderbird Shadow. We were bored, so we trained together a lot."

Virgil and Scott cast one more glance toward the big man, who was now being groggily lifted to his feet by the police officers, his hands cuffed behind his back. Gordon hadn't gotten a good look at the man earlier, but now he'd guess that he was over six feet tall, and probably weighed two hundred fifty pounds.

"Good grief," Scott muttered, his arm tightening instinctively around Alan. "I'm not sure _I_ could take that guy down! Way to go, Alan!"

Alan smiled, still blushing. He shrugged awkwardly. "Well, Kayo always says that the size of your opponent doesn't matter, as long as you know what you're doing. So it's not really a big deal."

Virgil grimaced. "Hmm, it's been a while since I trained with Kayo. I'm thinking that I might want to start that back up. It'd be just plain embarrassing if some little squirt like you could take me down."

The conversation was starting to fade away; things were going dark around the edges again. But Gordon was happy, so he didn't say anything. Besides, sleep sounded really nice.

Alan noticed, though. "Gordon?" he asked uncertainly.

Virgil whipped around and bent low over Gordon. "Gordon? Hey, Gords, stay with us, buddy."

And then Scott was there too. "C'mon, Gordy, if Alan can knock down a big guy for you, the least you can do is stay awake for him."

A small hand wiggled its way into his, and Gordon sucked in a breath past his raw throat, trying to focus. "Okay," he muttered. "I'll try."

The trip back to the island passed in a blur, but he knew that Alan stayed by his side the whole time, and Virgil checked on him frequently.

Eventually, he was settled in the infirmary bed. Scans had been run, and it was declared that Gordon had a concussion, but there didn't appear to be any complications, so he was allowed to sleep.

He had drifted off before Virgil finished talking.

When he woke up, hours later, his head was still pounding, but his mind felt a lot clearer. Knowing that there would be someone in the chair beside his bed, he slowly turned his stiff neck to the side to see who it was.

He blinked. It was Alan, slumped over against the mattress, sleeping soundly. Guess the kid did earn the spot in the chair – he'd been the one doing the protecting today, even though it was normally the other way around.

Virgil tiptoed into the room then, smiling as he glanced at Alan. He quirked an eyebrow at Gordon, his way of silently inquiring how he was feeling.

Gordon replied with a thumbs up, but then he thought of something and gestured for Virgil to come over.

They held a whispered conference for a minute, then Virgil, shaking his head and smiling, went over to the supply cabinet and cut a length of the red self-adherent bandage that they usually used to hold gauze patches on. He cut two holes in it, then handed it to Gordon.

Gordon carefully tucked the bandage under Alan's hand, and then lay back with a satisfied smile.

There. Now his superhero brother had his own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle mask, complete with eye holes.


	15. Stuck

15\. Stuck

Gordon twisted and writhed, wiggled and squirmed, but no matter how much he tried, he simply could not reach the one thing that would grant him freedom.

He finally gave up, panting, and slumped to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head on top of his knees, utterly discouraged. Normally he'd be able to handle the situation, but at the moment he was sore and stiff after a long, hard rescue, and his limbs simply would not cooperate.

So here he was.

Stuck.

 _Ha._

So much for being International _Rescue_.

He honestly had few regrets in life, but there was one decision that bothered him every time he put on his uniform, and he was paying for it now.

 _Consequences_ , he thought gloomily. _This is the consequence of a decision that you made. This is all your fault, Gordon. No one else's._ _Just one different decision, and you wouldn't be trapped like this._

Virgil wandered into the room then. "Gords, we're home. Where are you?" He spotted Gordon on the floor and quickly crouched down by his side. "Gordon? What's wrong?"

Gordon looked up at him, his brown eyes dark with tragedy. "I'm stuck," he said sadly. "Hopelessly trapped."

Virgil blinked at him. " _What_?" Then comprehension crossed his face, and he rolled his eyes. "Oh, _that_ again, huh? I don't understand why you feel like you can't ask for help."

Gordon sighed and dropped his head back down. "Because it's stupid."

Virgil snorted and pulled Gordon to his feet, turning him around and reaching toward the back of his neck. "Honestly, Gordon, this is ridiculous. Next time we order new uniforms, just get one with a zipper in the front instead of the back!"

He unzipped Gordon's uniform with one swift movement, then left the room, shaking his head.

Gordon took a deep breath and let it out, a satisfied smile slowly spreading across his face.

Ah, freedom.


	16. Corny

_I apologize for my weird sense of humor._

 _I also apologize if you've left me a review in the past few days and I haven't gotten back to you…the site was glitching, and I got behind. At this point, I may not catch up on older reviews, but please know that I have appreciated every one of your comments!_

16\. Corny

Virgil's voice crackled over the comm. system. "Okay, so I'll be coming in through the eastern wall. Make sure to keep the people well back and – well, you know the drill."

Gordon snickered.

"What is it, Gords?" Virgil asked with a resigned sigh. He knew from long experience that Gordon would tell him the reason for his laughter anyway, so he might as well get it over with.

"You said that I know the drill," Gordon said smugly. "I _do_ know the drill – in fact, we're on a first-name basis! Get it, Virg? Get it?"

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Yes, I get it Gordon – the Mole is a drill. Ha, ha. Very funny."


	17. Saying Goodbye

_It's TOS canon that during his time in WASP, Gordon spent a year under the ocean in command of a bathyscaphe (or a bathysphere, depending on the source). What was he doing down there, you ask? He was "investigating marine farming methods"…whatever that means, lol! Anyway, here he is saying goodbye to his family._

17\. Saying Goodbye

Gordon wasn't surprised at all when he got up on the last morning of his leave from WASP and discovered that his whole family had converged on the old Kansas farmhouse while he had slept – it was just the way his family was. After their mother had died, they had all come to recognize the importance of being able to say goodbye.

What did surprise him was that they were all sitting around the table when he went downstairs. Unless Scott was home on leave from the military, Grandma was usually the only one up as early as Gordon. When John and Virgil were on break from NASA and the Denver School of Advanced Technology, respectively, they usually slept late. And Alan, in typical teenager fashion, clung to sleep for as long as he was allowed to. Jeff was an early riser, but he wasn't home often.

But there they all were, awake, alert, and laughing as they plowed through the hearty breakfast that Grandma had prepared. Even their dad was home after a long business trip that had taken up most of Gordon's two-week leave. He'd been off purchasing some island, although what his dad was ever going to do with that isolated little bit of land, Gordon had no idea.

Gordon stepped into the room and there was a loud chorus of greetings when his brothers noticed him.

"Hey, kiddo!" Scott exclaimed.

"Good to see you, Gordon!" John said warmly.

Virgil teased, "What, no gills yet?"

And Dad, his eyes laughing, "Better sit down and eat, son – the way these hooligans are going, there won't be anything left in another five minutes."

Gordon slid into his seat and piled his plate high, smiling at the happy cacophony that flowed around him. The house had been so quiet lately that he'd forgotten how much fun it was to have the whole family home.

He laughed as his mind registered what Alan was wearing. "Nice shirt, Al."

Alan grinned and pulled the T-shirt away from his chest to look down at the lettering. It read, "My brother lives on the bottom of the ocean," the words encircled by the outline of a bathyscaphe. "Thanks," Alan said. "Virg had it made for me."

There was a slight ebb in the conversation, a brief pause as little flickers of sad glances passed between various family members. Gordon frowned – he hated it when people were sad.

"Hey, you guys, don't be sad!" he said. "I'm going to be living in my natural habitat! It's like – it's like…well, it's like when you have to release an animal you've raised back into the wild. It's a happy thing."

That got some loud laughter.

"Our pet squid," John said, rolling his eyes. "Going back to the ocean. Be free, little Gordon – be free!"

The subject had been successfully changed, and time began flowing again. An hour passed in a blur of happy chatter, and then suddenly, Gordon was in uniform, standing by the front door with a duffel bag at his feet, facing his family.

Grandma made the first move. She and Gordon had taken the time for a longer goodbye the night before, so she just gave him a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek, and instructions to "Take care of yourself, dear, and know that I'll be thinking of you every day."

"Love you, Grandma," Gordon replied, kissing her back.

And then Alan was crowding into Gordon's space, wrapping his arms around him in the way that only a gangly teenage boy could. He squeezed a bit too hard. "I bet I'll be taller than you when you get back," he said, standing on his toes and trying to gauge how many inches that would be.

Gordon laughed and ruffled Alan's hair. "You want to grow, you've gotta eat your veggies," he teased. "Be good for Grandma, okay?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "You say that like you're actually a responsible big brother." Then he grinned and grabbed Gordon in one last rib-cracking hug. "Bye, Gordon. I'll miss you!" He ducked back out of reach before Gordon could squeeze him back and put an arm around Grandma's shoulders.

Virgil stepped forward and stuck his hand out.

Gordon raised an eyebrow at the formality, but he took Virgil's hand anyway – and then laughed as his older brother pulled him into a big bear hug.

"I can't believe they put _you_ in charge of this expedition," Virgil said. "Careful you don't let it go to your head – I don't think maturity would suit you well." He grinned down at Gordon. "All teasing aside, though, I hope it's a really good year for you, Gords. We'll miss you, but we know that you'll be having a great experience and – _hopefully_ – learning lots."

"Aww," Gordon said. "Such a good speech." He pretended to dab at the corners of his eyes. Laughing, he ducked under a swat that Virgil aimed at his head. "I'll miss you too, Virg."

John cleared his throat then, and Gordon turned toward him. "You won't be able to see the stars for a whole year," John said seriously. It would have sounded like an offhand comment to anyone who didn't know John, but Gordon knew him well enough to be able to tell that this was actually quite a big deal in John's mind.

"Well, I'll just have to call you every once in a while and have you describe them for me," Gordon said.

John smiled, and the hint of sadness in his eyes faded. "That'll work."

Gordon held out his arms. "And now that that's settled, do I get a hug?"

"I suppose," John said begrudgingly. But once he wrapped his arms around Gordon, he held on for a long time. He sighed when he let go. "See you in a year," he said.

Scott moved forward then to hug Gordon. After a moment, he took a step back, but kept his hands on Gordon's shoulders, his warm blue eyes smiling as he met his brother's gaze. "I'm proud of you, Gords," he said. "Work hard, stay safe, and have fun. A year sounds like a long time, but it'll fly by, so make sure you make the most of every minute." He started to step away, but then something flashed through his eyes, and he grabbed Gordon in one last hug. Then he retreated to stand by Virgil, clearing his throat self-consciously.

His dad was driving him to the airport, so Gordon didn't need to say goodbye to him quite yet. He picked up his duffel bag. "Right. Well, then, goodbye everyone! I'll see you in a year! I love you all!"

Followed by a chorus of goodbyes, he stepped out to the porch, and wasn't too surprised when they trailed out after him, leaning against the railing and waving as the car pulled away.

It was a half hour drive from the rural farmhouse out to the airport. Gordon and Jeff sat in comfortable silence – they had taken the convertible, and Gordon was enjoying his final few minutes of sunshine and fresh air. He suspected that that was the reason his father had chosen to use that particular vehicle.

They arrived at the airport and pulled into a parking space, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Gordon pulled his duffel from the back seat and set it down, then faced his father.

They stared at each other for a minute, taking in each others' faces, their expressions sober as they realized that they wouldn't see each other in person for twelve whole months. Sure, they could look at photos, and Gordon would be able to make the occasional vid-phone call, but it wasn't the same.

Gordon studied the lines on Jeff Tracy's face, and thought about the fact that another line seemed to appear every time he had to say goodbye to a son. And with the number of sons that he had, he'd had to say a lot of goodbyes in his time.

"I'll miss you, Dad," he said. He stepped toward his father, arms outstretched, and caught his breath when he was seized in an unexpectedly tight embrace.

"I'll miss you too, son," Jeff replied.

Gordon felt his father's deep voice as a rumble against his chest. "It's just for a year," he said softly. "It'll fly by."

"I know," Jeff said. His grip tightened slightly.

And Gordon, in a moment of insight beyond his years, knew that he couldn't be the one to pull away. He had to wait for his father to let him go.

Jeff Tracy was a strong man. He'd delivered two sons to boot camp and later watched those same sons depart for their tours of duty. He'd seen two other sons leave for college every semester for years. His youngest son was already thinking about where he wanted to attend college. But his grip on Gordon told the second-youngest Tracy that no matter how strong his father was, the goodbyes never got any easier.

So Gordon waited, enjoying the last moment of feeling his father's warm, familiar arms wrapped around him for the last time in three hundred and sixty-five days. He could stay there all day, if it made it a little easier for his dad. Well, actually, he really couldn't…his plane was leaving in ten minutes…but, hey. In the grand scheme of things, what was a super-important WASP mission compared to spending a minute hugging his father?

Finally, Jeff sighed and released his grip on Gordon, taking a big step backwards. He was smiling, and his eyes were shining with pride, but Gordon could still see a layer of grief there, hidden in the deepest of the lines on his face.

Jeff cleared his throat. "Take care, son," he said. "I'll be here in a year to pick you up again."

Gordon smiled and picked up his duffel. "I love you, Dad," he said – and no, his voice didn't crack. It was just a tickle in his throat.

Jeff backed up toward the car. "I love you too, Gordon," he said firmly.

Gordon straightened his shoulders and threw his father one final grin and a quick salute as he backed away. "See you next year!"

He turned around and marched away down the sidewalk. He was a forward-thinking kind of guy, and his mind was already moving to the mission ahead, but he knew that his father was different – a sentimental old fool, he had occasionally called himself – and so just before he entered the terminal, Gordon turned around and waved one last time.

Jeff returned the wave, then opened the car door and sat down, disappearing from sight.

Gordon walked into the terminal, and his heart started beating faster in excitement as he saw his crew members waiting for him – he was ready for this mission. It was going to be a good year, and he was eager to see what adventures he'd face living under the ocean for twelve months.

Still, though…he knew that, in the back of his mind, he was always going to have a picture of his family as he had seen them that morning, gathered around the table, talking and laughing – together. _Ha_. Maybe he was a sentimental fool too.

And it was that realization that made him think of something – maybe someday – well, it was a stupid thought, but _maybe_ … _someday_ …they wouldn't have to say goodbye any more.

 _The End._


End file.
